


An Ache I Still Remember

by asroarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Kink Meme, Loss of Virginity, Pining, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Smut, WTFfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asroarke/pseuds/asroarke
Summary: She wasn’t in the room when the agreement was made. Her mother sent her out as soon as she told Lord Blake that anything could be on the table, and he glanced at Clarke before asking, “Anything?”Servant gossip told her the rest long before her mother mustered up the courage to confess what she agreed to.For the Kink Meme prompt: Queen Abby offers her daughters virginity to Bellamy who is threatening to conquer her lands.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 104
Kudos: 989
Collections: The 100 Kinkmeme Round 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme prompt: Queen Abby offers her daughters virginity to Bellamy who is threatening to conquer her lands. Clarke gets fucked for the first time but then Bellamy becomes obsessed with her and refuses to give her back 
> 
> The pining Bellamy is so strong with this one... for reasons that will be illuminated in chapter two. Abby is super OOC, but there's no other way to write this. Sorry not sorry. 
> 
> Enjoy!

She wasn’t in the room when the agreement was made. Her mother sent her out as soon as she told Lord Blake that anything could be on the table, and he glanced at Clarke before asking, “Anything?”

Servant gossip told her the rest long before her mother mustered up the courage to confess what she agreed to.

Lord Blake, though she has been told to call him King now, has been acquiring allies for years. Other nobles who are unsatisfied with Queen Abigail’s rule and foreign leaders who would like her overthrown. Province by province have been taken over. Now, he has claimed the Winter Palace as his own, holding court there. Hard to believe where he started out when seeing him now. He walked into Arkadian court as if he had always been a king.

Just one day ago, she was sitting in her own chambers awaiting the result of the peace talks. Now, she finds herself inside the Winter Palace waiting for him to return from his daily hunt so that he may enjoy his part of the deal: taking her virginity.

A sweet servant named Harper gives her updates while she waits, informing her that the King wishes to bathe before receiving her or that an urgent meeting has come up. Every time her door opens, she prays it’s Harper coming in with another delay. It usually is. And then, it’s not.

It’s him.

Clarke didn’t look at him long when she last saw him, what with it not being proper and all that. All day, she has only had a vague memory of him. Tall. Dark. Broad shoulders. A voice like silk. Hands that could break someone’s neck, matching the rumors she had heard of him.

Her memory doesn’t account for his piercing eyes or the swagger in each step. Nor does the shakiness of her stomach feel familiar from yesterday.

“Your Highness,” he says with a proper bow. The smirk on his lips tells her that it’s not proper at all.

“Your Grace,” Clarke snaps, hoping to knock that smirk off his lips by reminding him what he actually is. But it only grows in amusement. She crosses her arms and turns back to her window.

“Now, don’t be cross,” he teases, each step making the hairs on her arms stand on end. “I mean you no harm.” Clarke raises an eyebrow at that. “Who should your fury be directed at? The man who wants you or the mother who gives you away?”

She swallows, looking down at the floor. Her anger isn’t really with him. Lord Blake is known to be a brute, the sort of man who always hungers for what isn’t his. Clarke can’t expect any better of him. Her own mother, on the other hand…

A warm hand finds her back, and Clarke jumps.

“Easy,” he whispers, turning her around so that she faces him. Tall is such a hazy concept compared to the way he towers over her. “I won’t hurt you.” Clarke scoffs. “I won’t.” His hand reaches up to touch her face, his fingers featherlight against her skin. “I am always gentle with such precious things.”

Clarke holds her breath as his fingers explore her face. First her cheeks, then her lips. So careful is each touch.

“And you are quite precious, aren’t you?” His touch is soft, but his voice is rough and struggling. Low in a way that makes her legs a bit wobbly.

“You made a foolish deal,” Clarke chokes out. “I don’t know what I’m—”

“I’m aware,” he chuckles before pressing a kiss to her forehead. His lips are warm, which surprises her for some reason. “Been locked away in that castle all your life, under guard, completely untouched…” She squirms in his grasp. “Perfectly pure as a princess should be.” The next kiss lands lower, right between her eyebrows, and he hums against her skin.

“Just think of your country,” her mother had said before Clarke’s carriage left. But she isn’t thinking of Arkadia right now. She’s thinking about the two spots on her skin where she can still feel Lord Blake’s lips, warm and bordering upon searing. A third takes shape on her nose where he gives her a quick little peck followed by a low laugh.

“Have you been kissed?” Embarrassment floods her.

Clarke tries to duck her head, but he holds it up, his eyes boring into hers. “No,” she whispers, blush creeping across her skin. No sense in kissing anyone when she would just be married off to a stranger one day, though she has thought about it. Even once wondered if it would be worth it to kiss Lord Collins’ son. He turned out to be a monster. She’ll never forget that day she caught him and his friends beating up that defenseless servant.

He hums again as his thumb trails over her bottom lip. “Perfect,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t want to share something so lovely as your kiss with another.”

Her breath catches. He notices. One hand pulls her tighter against him, so close she can smell the rich soap from his bath. The other tilts her chin up as delicately as one might pluck a petal from a flower.

This isn’t supposed to be romantic. Her mother said all that mattered to him is knowing that he took something of value. It’s supposed to be quick but painful, just lying there long enough for him to finish and following her mother’s instructions to avoid pregnancy. She could be home by morning if he would just get it over with.

But even as he leans in to kiss her, Lord Blake takes his time. Eyes peering deep into hers, fingers gliding up and down her skin, his breathing low and steady. It’s as if he wants something more than knowing he’s ruined Arkadia’s princess. What, she isn’t quite sure. His chapped lips press gently into hers, light as a feather for the first kiss. The second press is harder, though not by much. It’s as if his lips are ghosting along hers, touching but not quite.

“Clarke,” he whispers, letting his breath fan out against her trembling lips. “I knew I had to have you. One look at you, and I wanted… so desperately, I wanted.”

His lust should revolt her. Make it easier to let her mind travel elsewhere while he takes what he wants.

But he’s such a powerful man. Terrifying, even. A true conqueror in every sense of the word. And he wants her. A man who could take anything he fancies wanted her most of all.

Her breath quickens and her heart speeds up. This is the kind of desire Clarke has only ever heard about. Hunger and lust that she is supposed to be too pure to experience for herself.

His lips graze over hers before pressing another kiss. His tongue pushes at the seam of her lips until she parts them, earning a quiet hum. His tongue slips into her mouth, making her skin flush hot each time she feels it against hers.

Their foreheads press together as they catch their breath. His eyes are shut, but she keeps watching him for a clue about what will happen next. His thumb traces her lips again.

“If any other man tries to kiss you, I will kill him,” he growls.

The threat doesn’t register until his lips are on hers again. Her body shakes at his words, and she should be ashamed that it’s not fear causing it. She can’t stop from clinging to his shirt to steady herself even though he has a firm grip on her waist.

His beard scratches against her sensitive skin and groans spill off his lips and into hers, but that is all that is rough. The rest is fluid and gentle. His fingers combing through her curls to pull out the pins, the slow circles drawn into her back, the warmth… how could such a tyrant be so warm?

Despite his soft touch, there’s something so possessive about it. His fingers touch every inch of her face as if claiming each patch of skin as his.

What’s worse is that she likes it.

His lips abandon hers, now trailing across her cheek. Settling by her ear, he whispers, “How did I know you would be so sweet?” Clarke furrows her brows at that. She’s not being anything, not doing a single thing except reacting to him. And what does he mean by sweet? She snaps at him every chance she gets.

She’s still turning his words over when Bellamy lets go of her waist so that his arm could sweep behind her knees. Her feet leave the ground before she realizes what he’s doing. Clarke yelps in surprise, and he laughs, all low and warm, as he carries her to the bed.

“You don’t need to wake the whole castle,” he teases. “Not yet, at least.”

Clarke is blushing furiously as he lies her down on the bed, taking care to brush her hair to the side so it doesn’t get tangled. Her eyes drift to the door. There has to be half a dozen guards just outside this room. More, even. That door would have to be the most watched one in the whole winter palace, what with a “king” and princess both behind it. How many men will be listening to Lord Blake deflowering her?

“Two,” he says. “On opposite ends of the hall.”

“What?”

“Two guards. That’s what you were wondering, right?” Her eyes meet his as he leans over her. Clarke nods. “There are more guarding the corridors, but no one just outside the door.”

“You care about my modesty?” she snorts.

Lord Blake scowls for a brief moment before a smirk is etched into his face. It doesn’t meet his eyes at all, though. His dark eyes look stung.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice unwavering as he settles beside her. Pushed up on one elbow, he reaches out to touch her face again. He waits until his finger trails down to her lips before saying, “The sounds you make are for my ears and for my ears alone.”

His words sound as soft as if he were telling her how pretty she is, betraying the possessive tone of his actual sentiment. But the full weight of his words is there, seared into place by his lips as he kisses her yet again. This time on her neck. Then, her collarbone.

Lips drag dangerously close to the neckline of her dressing robe. Her chest crests up and down violently, like the sea during a storm, but Lord Blake hasn’t attacked her throat like a wild tempest. Like all his kisses tonight, they have been nothing but gentle, just as he said they would be.

Gentle as he takes her, she remembers as his fingers settle around the fabric of her robe. As romantic is this might feel, it’s not. This is a contract. An offer of appeasement to the man who threatens to take her home. No matter how soft his touch or sweet his words, she can’t forget what this is.

When Lord Blake parts her robe, she turns her head away. As far as acts of defiance go, it’s a childish one. But Clarke cannot just stop this. Her virtue is not worth losing her kingdom, nor has she ever had a particularly romantic notion of sex anyway. Still, she does not have to enjoy it.

That proves to be the difficult part. He doesn’t just get it over with as she had foolishly hoped. Lord Blake takes his time, just as he did with their kissing. His hands feel hot against her breasts, his mouth even hotter. Each new caress alarms and warms her, making her breathing grow more ragged.

“Do not be mad at me, Clarke,” he whispers against her sternum. His breath is warm just like the rest of him, but feeling it against her skin makes the hairs on her arms stand on end and nipples grow harder.

“I am not mad. I am indifferent, Lord Blake.” Clarke can’t resist looking at him to see the blow land, but it does not seem to phase him.

After a quick kiss to the top of her breast, he says, “You could call me Bellamy, you know.” She rolls her eyes. “And you are not indifferent.” Clarke turns her head away again. His hand leaves her chest to pull back more of the robes, now exposing her legs, which gives her a chill. At least now he is getting on with it.

His hand lands between her legs, and a finger pushes its way past her folds. The strange prodding comes to an abrupt stop when he seems to land on his target. With one slow drag of his finger, some string is pulled inside her that floods her senses.

“Oh, no,” he tuts. “Not indifferent at all, love.” She tries to push her legs closed to stop that from happening again, but he doesn’t let her. Bellamy’s finger keeps rubbing her there. The more pressure he applies, the lighter her head feels.

It’s good, whatever he’s doing to her. Skilled. Heavenly. Calming. Each glide of his fingers makes her chase the next. Warmth floods every inch of her, perfect and overwhelming as it is.

Her eyes, dazed and lost, somehow find his. “What…” she mumbles. “What are you doing to me?”

The corners of his mouth turn up. “How do you feel?” Her eyes fall shut as his fingers speed up. She tries to say good, but her lips wobble too much for the sound to come out. “Sweetheart,” he hums, his lips right by her ear now. “Do you like this?”

“Yes,” Clarke manages to choke out. “But I don’t—”

“Just relax,” he says. Bellamy’s voice seems to be the only thing grounding her to this bed as each touch sends her back arching off. “Beautiful, Clarke.”

Tears form in her eyes, too overwhelmed to keep holding back. Clarke buries her face into his neck. He keeps talking, and she feels each word against his throat.

“Let go, let go for me. My beautiful girl, please.” In her daze, his voice sounds broken, all ragged and with an edge. “Don’t be mad. How could I not ask for you? Look at you.” His lips press hard into her forehead. “I had to have you.”

Clarke whimpers against his neck, trying so desperately to be quiet. But sounds she’s never heard before come spilling off her lips in rhythm with his words. Each touch pulls her deeper and deeper toward an edge, her heart pounding at the prospect of not knowing what happens when she tips over.

If she had some control over herself, she would ask him to stop. But the idea of his hand leaving her makes her panic rise. No, she needs it there, needs whatever he’s dragging her toward.

His mouth is still running, but all sound is muffled as something foreign and violent swells through her. It’s as if everything goes still yet vibrates through her all at once. As it slowly ebbs, sound grows clearer again and the throbbing that consumes every inch of her dulls.

Blinking away tears that must somehow belong to her, she sees him watching her. His fingers wipe away the tears and caress her cheeks.

“You’re alright,” he whispers. Alright is an understatement. Clarke is something else altogether. Something had been flowing through her veins that was far stronger than wine. “I have you, don’t worry.”

Unable to say anything, she nods. His hand slides beneath her back and pulls her into his chest. The rest of the room is still blurry, so she lets her eyes fall shut. Beneath her ear, his heart strums steadily. Clarke counts them, each one anchoring her back into this room. As she calms down, she notices his fingers threading through her hair and the feeling of his lips on her forehead. When she musters the strength to tilt her head up and look at him, he’s staring at her. It’s not a hungry or soft expression. It’s calculating.

“What?” she asks, voice hoarse.

His jaw clenches and unclenches before he says, “Nothing. Just thinking.”

They lie there for what seems like an hour, though it might have only been minutes. Of all the confusing things this evening, his lying beside her and staring up at the pale canopy above her bed is the strangest. His fingers still weave through her hair and he holds onto her, but nothing more. Bellamy is lost in thought, somewhere in a whole other world that Clarke knows nothing of.

When he finally speaks, he makes even less sense. “I didn’t hurt you tonight, did I?”

“No.”

“Good.” With a sigh, he tilts his head down to look at her again. Bellamy kisses her forehead and releases her. “Goodnight, then.”

Clarke scrambles to pull her dressing robes closed as he stands up and adjusts his trousers. “But you didn’t—”

“No, I didn’t. If the weather permits, you can go home in the morning. If you want to, I mean,” he says, not even turning back to look at her as he strides toward the door.

“What?”

Finally, he stops. His shoulders, normally so broad and strong in appearance, slump as he spins on his heels to face her. “I wouldn’t want to return to that home given that your mother sold you to me.”

That’s not what she was asking about, but now that he’s said that, she has to respond. “Because you demanded she did!”

With a click of his jaw, he strides back toward the bed, bracing one hand on the post as his eyes bore into hers. “I didn’t think she would agree,” Bellamy growls. “My general and I were arguing about how to dispose of her when we finally took Arkadia. Pike wanted death, but I wanted only an abdication because though she’s an incompetent queen, I thought she was at her heart a good person. I never would have asked for you if I had known she would fling her only child at me to buy herself more time to fight me off. It was supposed to be proof that she isn’t a heartless monster!”

Clarke gapes at him, blinking rapidly as she processes this. The part of her that is always trying to impress her mother is thrilled that he has confessed that he still plans to take Arkadia so that she can relay this information to her. It’s sick how she still wants to impress her even though she bartered Clarke for more time.

Heartless monster.

Her mother didn’t know that Bellamy would be gentle with her. She didn’t know that he would provide privacy for Clarke. Nor did she know that he had no intention of going through with it. Clarke could have been violently taken tonight in front of brutes cheering him on for all her mother knew, and she let it happen.

“Oh,” is all Clarke can manage to say. Her eyes flicker away from Bellamy’s, unable to take the weight of his gaze any longer. And perhaps she feels foolish for thinking that tonight happened because he wanted her so desperately. He never wanted her. Clearly, he’s had many lovers and would prefer someone who isn’t so prudish.

“Why come in here, then?” she asks. “Why kiss me or… touch me?” Though her cheeks burn hot, she forces herself to look him in the eye. “If you were never going to… well, you know.”

A corner of his mouth tilts up as he leans more of his body against the post.

“I’m not a monster, but I’m not a good man either, Your Highness,” he sighs with a small grin. “I will not pretend that I had only pure thoughts toward you yesterday. I assure you, none of them were pure.” Her cheeks burn hotter. “I intended to stay away, but I’m weak. I wanted a taste.”

 _A taste_. So crude. But her stomach flips anyway. Clarke turns and pushes herself off the bed, holding her robe tight so nothing is revealed.

“It was a mistake,” he adds. The pit of her stomach drops. When she turns to look at him, his eyes are soft like they were as he kissed her face before her first kiss on the lips. “A taste will never be enough, I’m afraid.”

“You still want me?”

“Desperately,” he says, voice low and rough. The same warm sensation from his touch earlier floods her again. He makes no move toward her, staying firmly against the post.

What she is about to say is a mistake. Bellamy said it himself: a taste will never be enough. But still, she says it.

“Then, take me.”

His jaw clicks and brows furrow. “No.” His hand grips the wooden post so tight it might snap in half.

“I want you to.”

She can’t make out his face as he storms toward her. He’s moving too fast, and when she finally sees it, it’s pressing against hers as he slams a kiss to her lips. It’s harder than the others, rough and hungry. Drains them both of breath so that they are panting into each other’s mouths.

Something hard presses into her stomach as his mouth devours hers. The intensity of his affections scares her a little, but she likes it too.

“Oh, love,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“You will be gentle?” she asks, blush creeping to her cheeks just from asking.

“Yes,” Bellamy says, breath ragged as he speaks. “So gentle, I swear.” His lips leave her lips to traverse across her cheek and down her throat. Clarke’s head falls back and his hand is there to catch it as she whimpers in pleasure.

Her body feels fluid and limp in his arms, relying solely on him to lower her back onto the bed. Bellamy fusses over her a little, combing through her hair so it lies comfortably on the mattress, making sure she’s settled with the pillow below her head, eyes raking over her as if searching for any sign of discomfort.

Gentle. So very gentle with her. Almost as if she’s precious to him.

Warmth buzzes through her as he carefully pushes back her robes. The cold air of the room hits her sensitive skin. Combined with the anxiety of being seen naked by a man, this forms small goosebumps across her body. Clarke’s eyes flicker to his, relying on Bellamy to be her anchor to this world, but he’s not looking at her eyes. His warm, dark eyes are studying her, trailing his hand as it glides between her breasts and down her stomach.

Clarke remembers his angry expression during negotiations along with his arrogant gaze when he first looked at her. There was the way he held himself all broad and strong as he returned to the castle, like the kind of man who could conquer anything. But the way he looks at her now has none of the edge as any of those expressions. No power on display or temper on the rise. Not even smugness when freely offered Clarke’s virginity. There is no conqueror in this bed tonight.

The only way she can describe the expression before her is reverent, which is somehow more overpowering and consuming than any of the others.

Clarke slides her arms out of her robe as Bellamy steps back to undress. The muscles of his stomach are lined with old scars. It’s an odd sight for an ordinary noble, but he is no ordinary noble. The late Lord Blake’s bastard, if the rumors are to be believed. Grew up in the servant quarters with his mother and sister, only inheriting the title because the late Lord Blake lost his first son more than a decade ago and his second wife proved to be infertile. Clarke can tell you how every young lord in the kingdom grew up, all except Bellamy. The first twenty years of his life were spent hidden away, working for the very estate he would one day inherit. The only thing she can be sure of is that the world had not been kind to him if those scars are anything to go by.

There is no ache in him now. No physical one, at least. Bellamy is quick to undress, to pull himself from his trousers. Clarke’s eyes settle on his large erection, heart stammering. She hasn’t had many conversations about sex. Whenever it is brought up, it is only to remind Clarke of the importance of her virtue. Though, she’s heard whispers from other girls at court, ones who married young. It hurts, they had said. And it hurts worse the larger he is.

Once he has kicked his trousers off his ankles, Bellamy leans forward and takes Clarke’s lips as he settles his body on top of hers. Her mouth trembles against his, her mind thinking only of the cock prodding her.

“Shh,” Bellamy whispers. “Look at me.” Her unsure eyes meet his, and he gives her a weak smile. Something inside her flips at the sight.

Her gaze catches on a small scar above his lip, and she reaches up to touch it. “How—”

“Got caught stealing from the kitchen,” he says with a laugh. It doesn’t seem like an honest answer. 

“And the others?”

“Are you worried about me, Your Highness?” Bellamy teases. Feeling foolish, Clarke sinks back into her pillow and averts her gaze. His hand settles on her cheek and he leans down to give her a slow kiss. “I don’t deserve your sweetness,” he murmurs.

They kiss for a while, sometimes slow, sometimes heated. His large hands take turns on her breasts, the touch too delicate to become hungry. No, his hunger is only apparent in the sounds he makes. Groans into her mouth, swears falling off his lips, pleased hums as she squirms beneath him. His body treats her as if she is precious and needs softness, but his mouth cannot stop from announcing that he wishes to devour every inch of her. The dichotomy tugs her back and forth between feeling like an angel he worships and the prey he has finally cornered. Clarke feels warm and safe with him, yet her heart pounds at the violent desire he cannot keep buried.

When his mouth leaves hers, it burns a path down her flushed chest. Both hands settle on her breasts as he continues down her stomach, squeezing her rougher than before. But just as quickly, his touch turns gentle and sweet. Loving, almost.

A hand comes between her legs, though this time not settling on the same spot as before. One finger pushes inside her. There’s a bit of pressure at first, but then it subsides. It comes back when another finger presses into her. Her brows furrow, and Bellamy leans forward to kiss the crease in her forehead.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “I have you.” After a while, she gets used to his fingers. The third is the most difficult, but his lips pepper her face with kisses until she adjusts, putting her at ease.

Her anxiety builds when he removes his fingers. The preparation is over, and Clarke is certain that his cock and his fingers will feel very different inside her. But maybe what he did is enough. Other girls didn’t mention their husbands preparing them or bringing them pleasure first, so maybe this won’t hurt for Clarke.

Bellamy pushes up until he’s on his knees between her spread legs. Cock hard and thick, his hand strokes up and down it as he gets closer to her.

The head bumps against her twice before pressing inside. Clarke keeps her eyes on Bellamy, breathing in rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest to stay relaxed. His face is tense with concentration as he pushes further. The pressure inside her grows too quickly, but she doesn’t want to stop him. No, she needs this. Needs to know what it feels like to be adored and craved at the same time. Needs to join her body with his. Needs to know everything about him. Who is this man who has ripped her kingdom in two yet dotes on her as if he adores her?

Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes when he’s fully seated inside her. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a lot all the same.

Bellamy’s eyes fall shut and his lips part. “Oh,” he groans, not moving his hips for a few seconds as if savoring this. “Oh, love.”

Finally, he pulls out with a groan. When he thrusts back inside, his jaw goes slack again. A low moan escapes him this time.

His dark eyes open, looking lost in a trance as he meets her gaze. The pressure is still uncomfortable, but it’s hard to focus on under the heat of his gaze. “Clarke,” he says, voice breaking. “Tight. So very…”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, not sure what he means exactly.

“No, no,” he breathes as he pushes in again. “Good, love. It’s so… good.”

Clarke gets lost in all his noises, as hypnotized by them as he seems to be by her. She forgets about her discomfort, and it dissipates before she remembers it again. Now, all she feels is him. Pushing into her and pulling out, dragging her back and forth like a wave trying to make it to shore.

He slows his pace to lower himself down and give her a wet kiss. “Love, this was a mistake,” he murmurs with a weak grin.

“No.”

“Yes. I’m too selfish to never have you again.” His cock drags slowly away, making Clarke whine at the loss. When he pushes back in, he whispers, “You make me want to do horrible things.” She gasps when he’s all the way inside her. “Like keep you.”

Their eyes meet. He can’t keep her, not without provoking Clarke’s mother. Even the parts of the population who loathe Queen Abigail would rally to her side at the prospect of the imposter king possessing their princess. The war would get very bad for Bellamy very quickly.

“I’m not worth a war,” Clarke tells him. His mouth lands on hers as his hips jerk into her, fast and rough. He never responds, conceding that she has a point. This is just one night. And he seems determined to make the most of it.

When he’s fucking into her in earnest again, his hand sneaks between their bodies. The dizzying feeling from before returns as his fingers rub fast, hard circles into her. Her body remembers the bliss well and chases it eagerly this time. Clarke moans happily under his sweet endearments and expert touch. Her body is hotter than before, as if about to melt, and his body heat only makes it worse. But she can’t stand any separation of her skin from his. Her arms hold on tight around his neck, securing his body as close to hers as possible.

Tears stream down her cheeks. Foreign sounds fall off her lips. She doesn’t even recall letting go, only feeling a wave course through her as she clings to Bellamy.

“You’re mine,” he grunts. “Only mine.” Clarke nods frantically through her tears. “No one else can touch you. Only me. Say you only want me.” His voice breaks off with a low moan.

“I do. I do,” she says, voice muffled against his neck. Clarke wants to see him, to see how he looks as he lets go, but she’s still so dazed that she can’t even bring herself to open her eyes. She just holds onto him as his hips stutter and he grunts her name over and over.

Warmth floods her, and Bellamy goes quiet and still. She does too. The two of them lie together, bodies still joined and still panting, not breaking apart for a minute or two. The first movement she feels is Bellamy pushing her damp hair out of her face.

Their eyes meet, and without a word, he slips out of her. His spend spills out of her, oozing onto the sheets, and the sensation makes her feel sad for some reason. Empty. Hollow.

“Are you alright?” Bellamy asks, now on his side beside her and cupping her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” After exhaling, he pulls her into his chest.

Neither of them mentions what he said about keeping her or about her being his. They don’t say a thing. They just lie there until Clarke’s eyes start drifting shut. The last thing she remembers before falling asleep is being moved and a blanket covering her.


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy rubs at his eyes, much to Pike’s annoyance. Sure, it looks disrespectful to the Queen’s ambassador, but he’s spent and exhausted. Four nights in a row sharing a bed with Clarke has been lethal to his sleep schedule, not that he would change a thing.

Pike coughs beside him.

“Alright, point to where in the agreement it specifies the amount of time the Princess would spend with me,” Bellamy says.

“One night was implied!” the ambassador says again.

“But not written down.” It’s a loophole he noticed right away, though he never intended to exploit it. That was before. Now, he’ll exploit any technicality he can think of for just a few more moments by her side.

“Our King did not understand…” Pike interjects, and Bellamy loses interest. Like the Queen and her ambassador, Pike is eager to return Clarke. He says Bellamy is distracted.

He’s not wrong. It’s reckless to keep her.

Bellamy doesn’t bother to argue as Pike and the ambassador negotiate for Clarke to return home in the morning. Though he is king, he does not have all the power here. Bellamy has the love of the lower classes, but Pike is who brings the disenchanted nobles with private armies and wealth. Bellamy can still do whatever he pleases… within reason. Keeping Clarke forever is not within reason, and he knows it.

Still, he finds himself searching for any other way he might keep her here as he walks to her room. A way without giving up everything he’s worked for.

She’s sitting in the window, reading, as he enters. “Am I going home?” she asks when the door shuts behind him. A card is tucked into the book to hold her place and tossed to the side.

“Yes. Tomorrow morning.” Clarke makes no reaction, just looks out the window. He would give anything to read her thoughts, but he’s never been able to read her. Not now, and not six years ago. Not that she remembers him from then. Hardly anyone does.

Bellamy sits behind her on the windowsill, his heart thudding as she leans back into his chest.

“Was this your decision?” she whispers.

“No, love.” Clarke’s head turns, and he can see the tears forming in her bright blue eyes. “Shh,” he whispers, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead. “It’s alright.” It’s not, but he can’t stand seeing her in distress. He’d rather take a knife to his throat than see her in pain.

Their lips find each other with ease. There have been very few moments in the last few days where their lips were separated, so kissing has become far more natural than not. And God, does he love to kiss her. Despite all the time they’ve now spent together, she still lets out these precious little gasps and sighs as he kisses her. He’ll never grow tired of them.

Somewhere amidst the kisses, her tears stop. Bellamy pulls back and smiles, though he can feel his chest cracking down the center each time he thinks of losing her tomorrow.

For so long, Clarke has been a fairytale he tells his sister. A story he isn’t sure really happened. A girl too kind that she couldn’t possibly be real. Then, he walked into a negotiation a few days ago and there she was. Bellamy nearly collapsed at the sight of her.

But now, he’s losing her again.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, eyes concerned as she looks up at him. The very same concerned eyes she had when they first met.

It had been a rough day at the estate. Lord Blake, his father, had been in a foul mood for weeks. That man had always been in a foul mood for as long as Bellamy can remember, but it was worse at the time because of the guests about to arrive. The estate was not as nice as he felt he deserved, certainly not up for entertaining anyone of importance. The servants had been breaking their backs trying to appease him, but nothing could be good enough.

Bellamy kept to the stables and out of the way. Not that it mattered. The brat son of Lord Collins found him anyway. And this time, he wasn’t alone.

It’s hard to remember which incident provoked it. It wasn’t like Bellamy was completely innocent in his feud with Finn. Finn played pranks on him, Bellamy got his revenge, Finn got his crew of scrawny nobles’ sons together to get back at him and Bellamy spent that beating plotting his next revenge. That’s just the way it was.

Bellamy took the beating well. Didn’t even flinch. It was nothing compared to what his father would do if he made the mistake of showing his face and someone important noticed the resemblance between him and Lord Blake.

Unlike the other times, someone witnessed it. Someone so important that the boys jerked away from Bellamy at just the sound of her voice.

It was _her_.

He missed most of what she yelled at Finn. His head was still spinning from the last hit. But the sound of her palm across his pale face was one he could never forget.

The vindictive laugh about to spill of his lips was halted by her hands helping him up to his feet.

“Let me—”

“I think you’ve done enough,” she hissed at Finn.

But when her eyes met Bellamy’s, they were nothing but gentle and concerned. Warm. The first flash of warmth he had seen in his cold life.

His weight fell on her, but she was surprisingly strong for someone so young. She had to be fourteen at most.

“Clarke,” Finn said. She ignored him and pushed a bit of dirt off Bellamy’s face, much to his embarrassment. Her hand was so warm against his skin. Though humiliated, he never wanted her hand to leave his face. “Your Highness.”

Those two words didn’t settle in until long after she was gone. Not as she dabbed at the blood with her own kerchief. Not as she and a boy named Wells helped him back to the servant quarters where his mother got to work stitching up his upper lip. And not as she kept apologizing to Bellamy and asking his mother if he would be okay, all worried for him, a stranger, a nobody.

 _Your Highness_ echoed through his thoughts that night. _Clarke. Princess Clarke_. A princess had helped him without even knowing him. It was something out of a fairytale. Something that surely couldn’t be real.

But it was. And it was the moment he held onto in the darkest days. Never in his life had anyone stepped in like that. No one except her.

And now, she doesn’t even recognize him. Which he’s relieved by. He wouldn’t want her to remember him from before.

“I don’t want you to go back,” Bellamy admits. “Is that selfish?”

“Yes,” Clarke whispers. “But so is me wanting to stay.” His heart pounds as he grips her tighter. Her blue eyes pierce his, seeing right through him in a way that no one else can. With her, he’s Bellamy again, not the standoffish Lord Blake or the forceful King. In her arms, he can let the revolution fall off his shoulders for a few hours and just be gentle and loving. Be the boy he could have been in a different world.

“Tell me you want to stay with me, and I’ll make it happen,” he swears. He’d do anything to keep her.

Her expression falters. “You can’t.”

Instead of letting her see his heartbroken expression, he kisses her. Bellamy knows she’s right. The war will already be bloody enough, and he can’t make it worse by keeping Clarke here. Enraging the Queen will only make his people suffer worse.

So tomorrow, she will be back home. Clarke will be at his enemy’s side until the Queen finally settles on a husband for her. Then, Clarke will be someone else’s, no longer his and only his.

He pushes all that aside, focusing only on her soft lips against his, the way she giggles against his mouth when he pulls her tight, how she holds onto his shirt, neck, face or whatever she can grab ahold of to steady herself against him. Most of all, he adores her little squeak when he lifts her up and carries her toward the bed. Always a little noise of surprise even though he does it every night.

His lips land on her neck, kissing up and down her pale throat until her nails dig into his scalp. Bellamy meets her eyes. The innocent confusion from their first night is long gone. Clarke knows what she wants now. What she needs. What only he can give her.

He’s a little rough as he rolls her onto her side so he can unlace her corset, but he kisses down her spine to make up for it. “Sorry,” he whispers. Clarke looks as if made of porcelain, something precious that must be taken care of. But Bellamy has heard all her beautiful sounds and felt them vibrate into his mouth as they kiss. His hunger to hear and feel them again drives him mad, sends him to a place where all he can comprehend is how much he _wants_. And though she looks like a fragile thing, she is anything but.

Bellamy pulls her back toward him, tugging her skirts up as fast as he can. Over the rustling, he barely hears her whisper, “This is the last time, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Bell—”

“No,” he growls. He can’t bring himself to look at her with how his heart thuds in a panic. It can’t be the last time. It won’t be. Bellamy stumbles off the bed. His knees slam into the ground in his haste. There will be bruises in the morning, but that’s a small price to pay for how her breathing staggers as he kisses his way up her thigh. “I told you…” She gasps as he nips at the top of her thigh, just a hair away from her throbbing cunt. “You’re mine.”

Bellamy never asked for his father’s estate. Never asked to be in the same ranks as the boys and men who tormented him as a child. Never asked to lead a rebellion. Never asked for anything.

So, why can’t he ask for her? Just her.

His begging takes the form of his lips sucking hard on her clit. His prayer is whispered with his fingers as he presses in and out of her. But he memorizes each sound she makes, each movement, each rise of her chest… because Bellamy is terrified this will be the last time. How does he go on trying to make the world into a better place when he loses the one who first made him believe in such a place?

She’s in a daze when he returns to her lips. She wobbles against his mouth, still too fluid to join him back on this plane of existence. Bellamy savors each moment of her coming back down, kisses her cheeks and forehead gently, whispering to his beautiful little angel. 

Her bright blue eyes meet his, clear at last, and she whispers, “Please.”

“What?” He would give her anything she wanted.

“I need you.” Her hands grip at his shirt, pulling him to her. “Now.” His cock throbs at the neediness in her voice, the demand, the order. She needs him. _Needs_ him.

Their lovemaking has been mostly slow romance. Undressing over the course of hours. Kissing shoulders and necks before ever daring to go lower. Pulling each other close in the middle of the night until he slips inside her.

But at her words, he’s on her, pressing inside with his pants partially pulled down. Her pale breasts are exposed, moving up and down with each thrust inside her. Her dress is all gathered around her middle, wrinkling horribly.

“Love,” he pleads. For what, he doesn’t know.

She’s so tight around him, and hot. And her hands are so greedy as they grip to his forearms, chest, neck, hair… anything she can get her hands on.

 _Take me_ , he wants to tell her. _Take all of me_. He’s hers anyway. Always has been, in a way.

Her hair is damp with sweat as he clings to her curls. The only sounds are their labored breathing and the slick sound of two bodies passionately slamming together. He could listen to only this forever.

Clarke’s arm wraps around his neck, pulling him down to her. Their lips find each other clumsily. A heart is pounding, but he can’t tell whose it is or if it even matters. And then, he’s spilling inside her, giving into her tight warmth. He holds onto her face to anchor himself, palms pressed against her cheeks as they mouth at each other’s lips.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against her lips. Her eyes falter. They both know it’s an impossible lie. “Mine. I’m not losing you again.” His voice breaks. Bellamy turns his head and slips out of her.

Neither of them speak for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the author recognizes that abby is incredibly ooc in this. the author also does not give a single fuck.

The carriage ride home is long and silent. Bellamy sits beside her, legs bouncing nervously. Though he says nothing, even his breathing is loud in her ears.

Clarke can’t make sense of any of it. The last week has split her into two. All her life, she’s been someone precious. A princess and future queen. Loved by her mother and people.

At least, she thought so.

But in the days that she’s spent with Bellamy, she’s been listening. Servants gossip, Bellamy lets things slip, and eyes tell her truths that her mother has hidden from her. The people hate them. They’re hungry and sick, and her mother has done nothing but ignore them.

A lifetime of obedience is hard to break, though. Even though the mother who supposedly loves her sold Clarke’s virtue for more time, there is this part of Clarke that gets angry when she hears talk of revolution. And she knows Bellamy is right… about all of it.

Clarke is on the wrong side of history, and there is nothing she can do about it. They call her a princess, but she is just a pawn to be played whenever it’s convenient. She’s not someone precious. Not to anyone.

Her eyes flicker to Bellamy, who has been watching her closely the entire ride. The idea of her leaving his side pains him, though she cannot fathom why. Clarke is important to him for some unknowable reason. Each night has been nothing but tender and passionate, the sort of devotion Clarke hadn’t even known to dream for. Why would he look at her like he loves her? Why would he do that to her, knowing that this only ends one way? It’s cruel to let her feel that kind of affection before taking it away.

Clarke turns away from him, deciding to be angry rather than sad. Anger is an easier emotion to cope with.

“Love,” he whispers. The word makes her chest ache. “Look at me.”

His eyes are pleading, as desperate as they were last night when he said he couldn’t lose her again. It made no sense. He’s never lost her before because he’s never had her before.

Behind him, she can see the outer wall of the city. In a few minutes, she’ll be back in her own court at her mother’s side. There, she’ll be complicit in raging a war against the man beside her, the one who spent night after night worshipping her.

“One more kiss,” Bellamy pleads.

Her hands shake as she takes hold of his collar. His hands take each of her cheeks as he presses a searing kiss to her lips. She slams her lips so hard against his that it hurts, but neither of them pulls away. His warm mouth that has become so familiar to her is a comfort that will hurt to leave. As are his gentle eyes. And the way his fingers flutter against her sides.

If she ever sees him again, it won’t be under pleasant circumstances. It would almost be kinder to never see him again, to let the way their bodies meld together be their only memories of each other.

When the carriage comes to a stop, Bellamy hops out first to help Clarke down. His hand leaves hers as soon as her feet are solidly on the ground, and her heart sinks. He’ll never touch her again.

“How kind of you to return my daughter, Lord Blake,” her mother hisses from the top of the steps. There is no greeting party other than the Queen and her guards, likely to keep this agreement as quiet as possible. Clarke tries to make eye contact with her but fails.

Bellamy walks in step with Clarke up the steps, followed by his own guards. “I assure you that I have been nothing but kind to her,” Bellamy replies through gritted teeth. Once at the top, Clarke walks toward her mother, waiting to be embraced. But her mother’s eyes stay trained on Bellamy, too angry to welcome Clarke home.

Drowning in passive aggression, there’s an agreement that with their newfound “friendship” that Bellamy is more than welcome to stay and rest for the evening before returning home. Her mother is obviously furious, but a peace treaty is a peace treaty, and she has to at least give the impression that she is behaving amicably to him.

Clarke is whisked off to her chambers to bathe, but there is a strange air all around her. No one is quite meeting her eye, even the nurse who basically raised her. It’s not until after her bath that she sees her trunk packed at the foot of her bed.

“What is this?” she demands. No one stops her as she stomps toward it and pulls out dress after dress. They’re all her winter dresses, the ones she hardly ever needs to wear in this climate. Two of them she has only worn once on their diplomatic visit to Azgeda.

Her heart is pounding as she searches the trunk. Deep down in her bones, she knows what’s happening, but it’s not until her fingers touch the white, lacy gown at the bottom that reality sets in.

Clarke storms to her bedroom door. Kane, her mother’s oldest friend and probably more if Clarke is being honest, stands outside with a grim expression.

“I need to speak with the Queen,” Clarke tells him.

“We’re running behind schedule, Your Highness, so that will—”

“Now!” Clarke shouts, and she can feel the entire castle fall silent. Far down the hallway, she can see two of Bellamy’s guards outside the room he’s staying in. Both are looking in her direction. Kane ushers her back into her room apologetically, clearly desperate to keep Bellamy and his men in the dark about what her mother is planning. “I am not going anywhere until I talk to her!” Clarke screams.

“Your Highness,” Kane pleads. “Keep your voice down.”

“I will not lis—”

“We have to do this quietly,” he scolds her. Part of her wants to slap him. Maybe she should. What is there left to lose?

“She sold me to her enemy and now she’s selling me to Azgeda?”

“That’s not what this is,” Kane snaps. “You knew your marriage would be arranged to form an alliance, and we need their army if we are to finally stamp out this rebellion. Roan will make a good husband. You could do worse. And if your recent trip has, uh…”

Her face flushes bright red, and she holds her hand up. She’s throwing Clarke into a marriage right away in case she’s pregnant. Clarke might just throw up.

“Get out,” she hisses.

“Clarke—”

“Get out!” she screams.

No one bothers her all afternoon. Her mother doesn’t have the courage to show her face. All Clarke wants is to disappear.

She’s being sold to Azgeda for an army that will wipe out a lot of people. Good people who just want a monarch who doesn’t turn their back on them like her mother has. Clarke’s people, regardless of if they side with Bellamy or not. And Bellamy…

It seems foolish for her to have worried earlier about the circumstances in which they may meet again. They won’t. He’ll be executed. All his hopes and dreams for the future will die with him.

Clarke sobs into her pillows. Bellamy can’t die. He can’t. She doesn’t want to live in a world that he’s not in. There is this warmth in him, this light. He made her see for the first time in her life.

Over the hours, her tears dry up. Her eyes fix on her ceiling as the sun sets. Someone, she doesn’t bother to look up to see who, informs her that her carriage will leave soon. Her mother is truly sending her off in the dead of night so that she could be married off by morning. And she’s too much of a coward to tell Clarke that.

They come for her trunk first, and the anger comes blaring back. Clarke doesn’t yell at Kane this time. She doesn’t say a word. She waits for her door to shut again and then goes to her desk. Clarke is no longer split in two.

 _Going to Azgeda_ , she writes. _Get all the men you can to the northern border. I will stall the alliance as long as I can. May we meet again_.

When the ink dries, she folds the paper as many times as she can and tucks it into her sleeve. When her maid returns to escort her, Clarke is completely stoic. No tears left in her. Just a job to do.

One of Bellamy’s guards, Murphy, remains outside his door. Clarke smiles at him, too forced to be casual. Murphy watches her with more interest now, his eyes scrutinizing her. Clarke fakes a stumble, and Murphy is quick to catch her.

“Your Highness!” her maid squeaks, and Clarke can hear a guard down the hall rushing toward her. She slips the folded paper into Murphy’s palm, locks eyes with him for a moment, and then straightens herself up again.

“I am alright,” Clarke assures everyone with an easy laugh before continuing to walk.

Murphy says nothing, just nods as they pass. Clarke steals a glance over her shoulder right as they turn the corner. He has the note unfolded in his hand and is rushing into Bellamy’s room. Clarke lets out a breath. Bellamy will be okay. He’ll take care of her people, and he’ll be safe now that he’s had warning.

Her mother is beside the carriage when Clarke arrives. Now, she gets the embrace she had been denied earlier.

“Go to hell,” Clarke mutters to her before turning to her carriage.

“Clarke!” Her hand grips Clarke’s wrist.

“I will never forgive you for this,” she hisses before yanking her wrist from her grip.

“You could be pregnant. This was the only choice. We can’t have—”

“If I’m pregnant, it’s your doing,” Clarke shouts. “You traded me, remember? You traded me for a peace treaty you are breaking right now.” She climbs into the carriage unassisted and slams the door herself.

Her mother lets out a huff of anger, as if she has any right to be angry. Luckily, Clarke will be nowhere near her by the time she realizes her daughter committed treason.

Queen Abigail just stands there and watches as the guards escort Clarke’s carriage away from the only home she’s ever known.

At some point amidst her plotting for how to delay her wedding, she falls asleep. Not unpredictable given that she’s hardly slept in the last week, thanks to Bellamy. She wakes to a jolt of the carriage, sending her flying forward and slamming her head into the paneling.

The pain is immediate and blinding. Outside, there’s shouting and the clanking of swords. Her father used to quiz her on what she should do if her carriage is attacked, but those lessons are failing her now. She’s too dizzy.

Clarke is going to die like this. With each scream outside, that truth becomes heavier.

She claws at the seats until she pulls herself up. Bodies are moving fast outside the carriage, too fast for her to see who is who. It all blurs together, but somehow, her fingers manage to open the door. She falls hard onto dirt.

Dark laughter escapes the back of her throat. What a prize she is for Prince Roan. Not a virgin, possibly pregnant with a bastard lord turned rebel king’s baby, a committer of treason, and now covered in dirt. If she lives to see her wedding, he might not have her.

Footsteps approach her as she tries to crawl away. But her assailant is faster and turns her over. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Watch your language,” Clarke mumbles up at the blurry figure. His brows are creased as he stares at her forehead. Her hand reaches for her forehead, feeling self-conscious. Her fingertips come back coated in her blood. “Fuck.”

“Come on,” he huffs as his arms grab hold of her waist. Clarke groans but doesn’t fight. She would hit him if his face could just stay still long enough for her to land a blow. “Stay awake.” Her head falls back as he lifts her. Bodies and blood litter the ground outside her carriage. “Your Highness!”

“I’m awake,” she slurs. But even as she speaks, her eyes fall shut. They’re just so heavy, and her head hurts so much. At least she kept her promise to delay the alliance. That thought makes her laugh again. It shouldn’t, but everything is so funny right now.

“He’s going to kill me,” the man carrying her calls out.

“No, no, no,” another voice says. Clarke tries to look up, but it’s too much work. “Let’s get pressure on that wound. Princess, lift your head up for me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she mutters. Then laughs. Bellamy has been a bad influence on her. Not even a week with him and she’s already disregarded two decades worth of etiquette lessons. Fuck it all. If she’s going to bleed out after her mother screwed her over twice in a row, Clarke isn’t going to waste time being nice.

“Jasper just had to spook the damn horses.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Shut up! All of you just shut up!” He presses harder on the wound, and Clarke yelps in pain. “Oh good, she’s still with us. Maybe Bellamy won’t kill you after all.”

At the sound of his name, Clarke perks up. Lifting her head up is painful, and she cries out. “Bellamy,” she whispers. “Where is he?”

“We’re taking you to him, okay?” Clarke blinks up to see Murphy looking down at her. _Murphy_. Bellamy sent him to get her. Her eyes fill with tears, and she nods. “Stay awake.”

But as hard as she tries, she can’t.


	4. Chapter 4

Octavia greets him on the steps. That’s never a good sign. Bellamy has a bit of a temper. Whenever something goes horribly wrong, Pike sends Octavia to deliver the news to Bellamy to prevent him from shooting the messenger, so to speak.

His body aches with each step, the result of being on his feet for three days straight as he gets the troops in line. Bellamy did as Clarke suggested and sent soldiers to the northern border. In his haste to make sure Clarke didn’t go to Azgeda, he hadn’t realized right away that stopping the wedding would also mean stopping the alliance and the Azgedan army that came with it. He didn’t dare admit that to Pike, instead letting Pike praise him for such a brilliant move.

“Any news?” Octavia asks. What she really wants to know is if Lincoln is still alive, which he is. He’s one of Bellamy’s most trusted generals.

“Not yet. All is calm,” Bellamy assures her. The move the Queen made is a betrayal of their agreement, and there has to be consequences. His soldiers now cover the border between Arkadia and Azgeda, cutting Arkadia off from receiving weapons and other resources from Azgeda. “Hurry up and tell me what’s wrong. I need to go see Clarke.”

Octavia averts her gaze for a brief second. His stomach drops.

“Clarke is still here, right?”

“Yes,” Octavia says, grabbing Bellamy’s hands and squeezing them gently. “She’s just… well, there was a complication with her rescue.” His heart nearly stops. “The princess was injured. The horses got spooked and turned the carriage onto its side with her still in it.” Bellamy lets go of her hands and storms into the castle. Octavia runs to keep up with him and continues speaking. “It’s only her head. The physician says it’s a concussion and she’s recovering well. I’ve been watching over her, I swear, Bell.”

Servants, guards, and advisors all press themselves against the walls as Bellamy passes them, all knowing better than to interrupt him when he’s like this. Pike opens his mouth as Bellamy walks past him, but all it takes is one vicious look for him to slam it shut. Bellamy has spent three days arranging the blockade and receiving updates from Pike without one mention of Clarke being hurt.

The servants set up Clarke in a different room this time, the one right beside his. Its window looks over the gardens, which is Clarke’s favorite view. The window is covered when he enters, shielding Clarke from the light as she sleeps on her side.

Seeing her sleeping form knocks all the anger out of him. Quietly, he shuts her door behind him. Bellamy tiptoes toward her and brushes some hair out of her face. A scabbed over wound sits prominently on her forehead, making his heart pound.

“Love,” he whispers, though not loud enough to rouse her.

He slips off his boots and joins her on the bed. His chest presses against her back as his hand takes ahold of hers. Bellamy buries his face into her shoulder, breathing in the scent he feared he never would again, and he lets himself cry in relief.

Hours pass. He sleeps off and on. Clarke stirs around noon, and his stomach knots and unknots over and over as he waits for her to realize he’s there.

She never asked him to rescue her. Her note to him was quick and to the point. Its intent clearly was an act of patriotism or affection for him, but he doesn’t know which. He hopes both. But there was no request for him to stop her wedding. He’s not sure if she would see his action as a rescue or a kidnapping.

Her hand turns in his grasp, properly holding his now. “Bellamy?” she murmurs, all sleepy and foggy. He squeezes her hand.

“I’m here,” he says. She lets go and tries to turn toward him. Bellamy helps her, not sure how badly she’s concussed. Her blue eyes meet his in the dark, and her lips twitch up. He breathes out in relief. They kiss. It’s not one of their better ones. Too tired and short, but his heart soars anyway. She’s really here with him.

They don’t really talk. Clarke just curls up against him and rests her head. Bellamy wishes he could relax now but having Clarke safe and sound beside him brings more questions. The main one being: now what?

Bellamy has no plan for them. He has a plan to win the war. He has a plan to fix what the Queen has wrecked. But he didn’t stop for a second to make a plan outside of keeping Clarke.

Arkadia has no idea that Clarke is here. They know she didn’t make it to Azgeda and that her body wasn’t found amongst those of her guards at the sight of a deadly skirmish. Half the country believes her dead, the other half tearing every square inch apart looking for her. The Queen won’t rest until she finds out what happened to her only child, and it’s not as though Bellamy would keep Clarke hidden away forever.

He mulls this over the next few days as he spends every available second at Clarke’s side. Arkadia is too panicked over their missing princess to have tested the blockade, so the fight is at a standstill. As soon as word gets out about Clarke being here, it will be all out war. No matter what, it looks like a kidnapping. An act of war as egregious as asking for Azgedan troops.

Pike suggests sending Clarke away to one of their allies, keeping her hidden until after the war. Bellamy’s temper gets the better of him, but Pike doesn’t back down. What’s worse is that he uses Bellamy’s feelings for Clarke to try and convince him that’s what’s best for her. He walks away half convinced but still too selfish to give in.

When he slips into Clarke’s room, she’s at her window. A discarded book sits on the sill beside her as she looks out at the garden.

“How are you feeling?” Bellamy asks.

“I keep telling you that I’m fine,” Clarke laughs. When she turns to look at him, there’s something odd about her expression. Ever since he returned, her eyes seem to pierce him more, as if she’s seeing something in him she hadn’t seen before.

“What’s on your mind?”

The look disappears behind a mask. “Nothing.”

“I doubt that is ever true.” Bellamy picks up the book and sets it on a nearby chair so he can sit on the sill with Clarke. Their eyes meet, and he says, “Tell me.”

“I want to know why you didn’t tell me,” Clarke says.

Bellamy’s gaze flickers toward the door. Servant gossip. He should know better than to think anything that happens in this castle is private. He used to be one of those servants whispering about what he’s overheard. Pike has probably been telling anyone who will listen that Clarke should go to one of their allies and hide until after the war, regardless of how many years that will take.

“And don’t get angry at Octavia for telling me,” she adds. “She thought you had told me last week.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were the boy,” she says. He stares at her, mouth open from shock. Of course, Octavia told Clarke. After all, Clarke is the fairytale that Octavia grew up on. The princess who saved her brother. “The one that Finn atta—”

“The one you saved,” Bellamy interrupts. “Yes.” Her eyes make more sense now. Clearer, finally seeing all of Bellamy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bellamy takes her hands in his. He doesn’t know what to say. There is no way she could ever understand that the world he lives in now is not the one it had been before her. His world had been cruel. She filled it with hope. Everything that he’s done since is because of that day… because of her. Love doesn’t even begin to describe how irrevocably bound he is to her.

Why didn’t he tell her? Because to her, he was just some poor servant she helped. To him, she was everything. And still is.

“You didn’t even remember,” Bellamy shrugs. He lets go of her hands and sits upright again. “And it was a lifetime ago.”

“I didn’t recognize you. There is a difference. I never could have forgotten that day.” Bellamy sighs. “I never could have forgotten you.”

The affection in her eyes is too much. Bellamy stares down at his hands, trying to think of something to say. Silent moments creep by, and his mind flashes back and forth between now and back then. To the angel who saved him, to his love that he might have to send away.

“My advisors want to send you to Sanctum until this is all over,” Bellamy says.

“No.”

“Clarke, it’s not—”

“I’m not leaving.” After a beat, she asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Of course not!” Bellamy snaps.

In a huff, Clarke jumps up and throws up her hands. “Then, what do you want?”

“You!” Bellamy stands up too, standing just a breath away from her. “But I can’t always have what I want.”

“Why not?” Clarke challenges. How could she be so naïve? She was raised in court. She knows the way of politics. Surely, she knows that them being together couldn’t end well.

“Pike says—”

“Fuck Pike.” Bellamy almost jumps back, alarmed. So much for his proper princess.

“He is the reason I have the support that I have,” he explains. “I can’t just ignore him.”

“You really think that? The people want to follow you,” Clarke argues, jabbing her finger into his chest right above his heart. “Give me a real reason.”

“Okay, your mother will go to war over you.”

“You’re already at war,” Clarke groans.

“The people will think I kidnapped you and forced you to—”

“I’ll tell them I love you.”

“That won’t—”

Bellamy meets her eyes, heart pounding as he processes her words. His bottom lip wobbles as he tries to speak, but there are no words.

“So, I’ll stay.” Clarke starts to sit down, but his hands seize her waist before she can. Her bright blue eyes meet his, looking as nervous as they did their first night together. Bellamy presses his lips into hers too hard. The kiss almost hurts, but she holds his face in place so he can’t stop. When they pause to suck in air, she asks, “I’ll stay?”

“Yes,” he nearly growls in his haste to feel her lips again. “Yes, yes.” She giggles against his lips. How could anyone think the world cruel after hearing such a beautiful sound?

When he gets control of himself again and pulls back, Clarke is smiling up at him. “You really want to stay with me?” he asks, still not sure this is real. She nods. “And you really…” He looks down at the ground.

“Love you? Are you hard of hearing?” she teases. Bellamy shoots her a pleading look. He just needs to hear it again. “Yes, Bellamy. I’m yours, remember?”

 _Mine_. A desperate word uttered when he thought he’d never see her again, and now she’s his. Just as he has always been hers.

“I love you too.” She doesn’t look surprised but pleased all the same. It’s not news to her. How could it be with how his heart stops each time he sees her?

“So, now what do we do, Your Majesty?” she asks.

“Whatever the hell we want.” He leans down to kiss her. “War plans can wait until morning.” She rolls her eyes. “But what I want to do right now,” he whispers, and her grin turns lecherous, “is make you my wife.”

Her lips part, and those blue eyes of hers go wide. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he swears.

Clarke’s hands slide down his arms until they find his hands. She takes them and looks up at him as if about to kiss him. Instead, she tugs him by the hands toward the door and asks, “Then, what are we waiting on?”

Bellamy frees his hands from hers. Before she gets the chance to pout, he’s picked her up and put her over his shoulder, making her giggle ferociously. She hits at his back playfully as he carries her out of her room and down the hall. Murphy rolls his eyes as they pass, and Jasper takes off running to find someone who can marry them when Bellamy orders him to.

He puts her down once they’re in the small chapel at the back of the castle. “Quite a few people will be angry about this,” Clarke tells him.

“Too bad,” he laughs.

She gets up on the top of her toes and presses a kiss to his lips. “Yes, what a shame,” she replies, and he kisses her harder.


End file.
